


After Long Years

by Shunters



Category: Ghosts (TV 2019)
Genre: Angst, Canonical Character Death, Character Death, Eventual Fluff, F/M, Forbidden Love, Gen, Ghosts, Gun Violence, Hurt/Comfort, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, Long regency story telling, M/M, Murder, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Poetry, Pre-Canon, Pre-Season/Series 01, Regency, Sort Of, Stories within Stories, Tags May Change, brief description of panic attack, no beta we die like men
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-14
Updated: 2020-09-20
Packaged: 2020-12-16 04:10:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,889
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21030047
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shunters/pseuds/Shunters
Summary: A young heir, one Thomas Thorne, spends a week at his close friend's country house, thinking it nothing more than a vacation. He knows not of the shadowy plans his 'friend' has drawn up in the dark. And, in this case, what he doesn't know will hurt him.(Aka, the story of Thomas' death and the time between then and now.)





	1. Thy Vows Are All Broken

**Author's Note:**

> This is a later fic inspired by the Day 11 prompt 'death'. This chapter was finished a while ago, I just didn't get the chance to post it until now cus uni has been kicking my arse. 
> 
> Anyway, this chapter contains a fair bit of Regency/Georgian slang, so I've put a list of the terms at the bottom, in case you aren't sure what any of them mean. 
> 
> Not sure when I'll get the next chapter up, but I have already written some of it.

Thomas loved George, he really did, but  _ this_\- this was just... unthinkable, nay  _ despicable_. 

Thomas had shown his latest poem- his  _ masterpiece_\- to his love only yesterday. And now, the poem- one of the greatest love poems in an age- had gone  _ missing_. Only one person knew that Thomas had completed his latest work. There was only one answer to the dilemma of who had blatantly taken his work. 

Lord Byron had _stolen _the Thorne Heir’s poem. Right from under his nose. 

* * *

Stealing his work had been one thing, but _this_?!  No, Thomas would _not_ stand for this. 

“You cannot!” he cried, “I will not let you, George!” 

“It must be done, Thomas!” George argued, “we have been brought to Point Non Plus. How else am I- are  _ we_, to maintain our social standing?” 

“Are you really so far into Dun territory, that you must set your cap at someone who hasn’t an ounce of steel in her? If you are so in need of money, I would gladly bleed freely for you.” 

George stepped forward, teeth gritted in anger. “I refuse to become a helpless cretin, hanging upon thy sleeve. You shan’t throw a rub in the way of my proposal, Thomas!” 

“Blast your top lights, I will _not_ be leg-shackled to another, not even for show! Is a simple life with me really so beneath your touch?” 

“If you insist,” George threw up his hands, “you may remain as a lonely bachelor for the rest of your days, but _I_ shall not! I _will_ marry Lady Milbanke, with or without your blessing!” 

“I will not let you!” Thomas shouted, stepping forward and throwing his hands violently over his own chest. ”You cannot cut up our peace, again!” 

“And what are you going to do about it, Thorne?” Where before, George’s voice was vicious and full of bitter anger, it was now quiet and hard as steel. “Spread another fudge about my dishonour?” Thomas gasped and stumbled back a step. “Woo the Lady before I propose?” Thomas scoffed. “Or, perhaps you will just go ahead and kill her, like a fool in calf-love, as though a character from one of your own cork-brained writings?” Thomas’ jaw dropped and he stared in shock at the man who he would have done anything for. 

As the hurtful words rolled over in his mind, Thomas’ chest grew tighter, his body suddenly set alight. His heart pounded heavily against his sternum and his mind blanked of all rationale, as the Lord Heir lost himself in his rage. 

“Or, maybe,” he hissed, his voice dark and full of poison, “I should tell Lord Milbanke that his daughter’s so-called suitor is cutting shams in his love for Annabella, and would find rather more in common with the Milbanke Heir than the accomplished Heiress.”

George breathed in sharply, staring into Thomas’ eyes as he stated, “you would not dare.” 

“And, pray tell, my love, why is that?” Thomas replied, just as quietly, “do you believe me to be in possession of a white feather?” 

George was silent, and Thomas glared, then turned and strode away from his love. He had to do this. He _had_ to break apart the courtship before it was too late. 

“By the gods above, I will not let thee ruin me,” came the mutterings of his lover. But, Thomas’ resolve was steadfast and he would ne’er give in, for he was as stubborn as a mule. 

BANG! 

There was an explosion behind him, making Thomas jolt forward a few paces, as something tore  _through_ his back and abdomen. His eyes travelled down of their own accord, and he gasped when they caught sight of the red falling down his waistcoat. His knees buckled. Suddenly, the beautiful blue sky was directly above him, the white clouds floating peacefully across his vision. 

George came into view. “I must send my deepest regrets, my love, for this is not the fate I had wished for us both.” He had tears in his eyes. “But, alas, I cannot allow thee to cut shams upon mine honour.”

Thomas blinked in confusion, struggling to breathe through his pain. His eyes drifted down as a glint caught his eye. George was holding his pistol. He blinked slowly, eyes sliding back to the blue expanse laid out above. Oh. George- Lord Byron had- 

The older man slipped something into Thomas’ pocket. “I truly apologise for this, but I fear that I cannot be here when they find you.” He kissed Thomas’ forehead, cupping his cheek, before standing. “I bid you farewell, my dove, with thee my love doth fly.” 

Oh. Well. Geor- _Byron_ had shot Thomas, on a walk through the woods, miles away from civilisation. And now the, the-  _shabbaroon_ was just going to leave him here, with nothing, not even a parting bullet to the brain to ease Thomas’ passing. 

A single shot to the gut, it was a slow and nasty way to die, especially when one was alone and betrayed. But the emotional agony of his heartbreak far outweighed the physical pain of his injured body. Or, perhaps that was just the shock. 

* * *

It seemed like hours later when Thomas, near-blind with pain, heard footsteps approaching. 

He tried to call out for aid. “Here,” he croaked, “over here.” 

There was a pause in the nearing sound, before it started up again, this time more cautiously. Soon enough, a man dressed in servant clothing was knelt beside Thomas. 

The stranger took in the sight with wide eyes. “Don’t worry, sir,” he said, “I’ll fetch help.” 

Thomas blinked, and the man was gone. Along with Thomas’ jacket. 

* * *

No sooner had the world blackened around him, did his eyes open to the bright day. Only now, he was not staring blankly up at the calm sky, but gazing, horrified, down upon his own corpse. It took several heart-pounding seconds for the sight to sink in, but when it did, Thomas found himself speaking to the empty forest around him. 

“What magic is this?” he cried, “for surely this is the work of some foul beast, lest mine eyes do deceive me. For what reason have you chosen to torment me, fiend?! Do you not find mine misery great enough? Is the reckoning of my heart not yet complete? Or do you wish to torture me into seeking Bedlam?” Thomas paused, glancing around the clearing, before staring down at his own corpse. “Or, perhaps, I find mineself trapped in Bedlam already, pushed into madness by some betrayal or grief so bitter as to force mine mind to run from mine body?” 

There was silence for many minutes, only the tranquil background noises of the outdoors to keep him company. Then, from directly behind Thomas, came a rough and gnarled voice, unlike any the Thorne Heir had heard before. 

“Greetings,” the deep voice said, and Thomas jumped. 

He yelled in fright, whipping around to face the devil’s lackey. “Stay back, foul creature!” Thomas shouted, voice warbling in destress as he stumbled backward, keeping his arms raised, as though to force the foe away. “I know not what your plan is, beast, but I shall let you torment me no more! I demand you tell me what you have done to my body!” 

The creature grunted, frowning as well as it could without eyebrows. “I no foul nor beast! I no’ done nothing to you!” 

Thomas scoffed, scowling right back. “As though I could trust the word of a demon.” 

The beast growled in annoyance. “Why this never go good? Urg, I get Mary.” With that, the creature turned away, running off in the direction of the manor. 

Thomas blinked in confusion. Just what on god’s green earth was going on here? 

* * *

Thomas was sat, staring forlornly at what he now believed may very well be his own dead body, when the strange half-beast reemerged from the tree line. 

Thomas sprang to his feet. “Now, look here, sir, I demand you tell me just what is going on.” 

The creature stopped before him, but it was not alone this time. Only a few steps behind, a strangely dressed peasant woman, covered in soot, stopped beside her companion. 

“So, this be the new ones, then?” the commoner asked, voice unrefined and what could only be described as wobbly. 

“Now, who are you?” Thomas‘ eyebrows lowered in confusion as he glanced back and forth between the poor woman and the beast. “Just what is this farce?” 

“This no trick,” the beast-man grunted gently- if such a thing were possible- in return, “you dead now, like us.” 

Thomas had realised that was a likely possibility- he’d heard the haunting tales of the Little Plague Girl, after all- but to hear someone voice that thought, even if it was from a strange creature, was disconcerting, to say the least. So disconcerted was he, that Thomas found himself to be stumped for words. Speechless, Thomas stared at the strangers, mouth agape. 

The soot-covered peasant stepped forward. “Robin don’t speaks as good as me and you, so yous going ta have ta forgive him. What he be meanings to say, is that.. yous be dead now.” 

Thomas stared at the uncultured woman. “_Yes_!" He nodded. “I _did_ understand him! And, for thine record, thou doth speak no better than thine friend.” 

The woman blinked. “Right. Mine name be Mary. This, here,” she pointed to the half-man as she spoke slowly, as though Thomas were a simpleton, “be Robin. Yous be the guest at the Baronses’ country house, yes?” 

Thomas blinked, struggling to decipher the garbled speech of the peasant. “Yes. I am the Honourable Thomas Thorne, second heir to Lord Thorne, writer, actor, musician, and hailed poet.” 

“Tis nice ta meets yous, Mas’er Thorne,” Mary replied. 

“Yes, good to have new face,” the beast- Robin, apparently- said, “but bad for you.” Thomas guessed that was his way of expressing remorse at the fact that Thomas was now... dead. 

* * *

As if being betrayed and murdered by his own lover weren’t bad enough, now Thomas was stuck as a spirit, left to haunt these grounds forevermore. Just like a character from one of his early works. 

_‘Fiend seize it and blast the Lord Byron to damnation,’_ Thomas thought, following Robin and Mary back to the house,  _ ‘and curse my own addle pate mind for being so fond of the man in the first place.’ _

Honestly, to think the day had started out so well. 

* * *

Thomas had gone on a trip to the country, invited by his lover to spend a week away from the busy city, in the Baron’s vacation home. The first six days had been amazing, with the staff knowing better than to disturb their master and his guest without due cause, giving Thomas and George plenty of alone time. 

Then the final day had arrived. Thomas had packed his belongings, leaving his trunks in one guest room, ready for the servants to collect. He had turned to the exit, picking his jacket up along the way. It was a double-breasted tailcoat, a lovely deep blue, near black, in colour. The very height of fashion, perfectly tailored to show off his masculine features. What’s more, it had hidden pockets inside the lining, so as to prevent thieves from pocketing his valuables. It had been very expensive, a gift from George. (Though, of course, nothing which was out of Thomas’ own price range, as that would draw undue attention.) 

Thomas had smiled down at the jacket, before pulling it on. He’d left the room, fiddling with the buttons and touching the one with Byron’s initials hidden upon it, as he brought his arms down by his sides. 

Upon reaching the library, where George had asked for them to meet, Thomas had knocked, before entering. (Despite having been given free rein of the house by the owner, it never hurt to exercise caution when entering into a closed room.)

George, sat reclined upon one of the sofas, book in hand, had sat up when he saw his lover. “Ah, Thomas,” he had said, “I much appreciate you coming to see me.” 

“Of course, Lord Byron,” Thomas had replied, smirking playfully. 

“I thought we might take a promenade through the gardens, into the woods, perhaps,” George had proposed as he stood, “get some privacy to talk, before you leave for the city.” 

Thomas had smiled. The man had been so romantic. “That sounds delightful, do lead the way.” 

_‘This is it,'_ Thomas had thought as he followed his lover,  _ ‘George is going to ask me to move into one of his houses, or, at least move to a nearby house, so that we might see each other whenever we so please.’ _

George had led the way through the house, talking idly about his latest poetry plans. As the pair reached the backdoor, which was close to the downstairs library, George had turned to the servant who was stood there. 

“Have supper prepared for our return,” he had said, pulling out his pocket watch, the one which Thomas had given to him. “We shan’t be earlier than,” he had checked the time, “say, six o’clock.” 

“Very good, Lord Byron,” the servant had dipped his head. 

“Move Master Thorne’s belongings down to the entrance hall, but do not prepare a gig just yet,” George had continued, “I shan’t expect him gone until past supper.” 

“Of course, Lord Byron,” the servant had bowed as the two noblemen exited into the gardens. 

They had made their way slowly toward the woods, discussing nothing of importance and speaking affection in their own coded language. Before he’d known it, they were both secluded in the woods, hidden away from the well-worn promenade. It would have taken an hour or two for anyone to reach them here, and the view around them was obscured by the bushes which Byron had previously had planted. It had been their picnic spot. There were fresh blankets covering the floor, as always. 

George had stopped, turning to look at Thomas, composed face hiding a nervous disposition. _Oh_. Thomas had a pretty good idea of why they were here. Yes, they had talked about being more... _ adventurous_. And the nearby writing shed was, in fact, fitted with bedding and the like. 

“Is it just me, George, or is it getting abysmally hot out here?” Thomas had asked, unbuttoning his jacket. “I am afraid that I simply cannot continue this walk with so many layers.” He had smirked, sliding his jacket off. “Ah, I must say, that is decidedly better. Would you not agree?” 

George had been too busy scanning Thomas’ slim chest and near-naked arms to reply, taken in by the indecency of a gentry showing his shirt outside. 

Thomas had continued smirking, heart pounding from the thrill of it all, as he approached George. He had placed a hand upon George’s chest, looking into his eyes playfully. 

“What say you?” Thomas had asked, planting a light kiss on his lover’s cheek, “would you like to join me?” 

Instead of waiting for an answer, Thomas had slid his hand up to the back of George’s neck, pulling the other man into a kiss. It had been dangerous and foolish. If they had been caught... well, the best-case scenario was becoming a social pariah, in the worst case, the both of them would have soon seen the three-legged-mare. 

It had been several minutes of kissing later, when George had gently pushed him away. “Wait, Thomas, that is not the reason I brought us here.” 

Thomas had blinked in confusion from the sudden change. “Then, for what reason  _ did _ you bring us out here?” 

“There’s something I need to tell you,” the Baron had said. 

And, that was about when the day started to go terribly. Which lead to Thomas’ current situation of meeting a headless ghost and a dark-skinned woman in clothes only outdated by a few decades. 

* * *

“Oh, a new person,” the noblewoman said cheerfully, “how terribly exciting. I’m Lady Katherine,” she held a hand out to him and Thomas took it hesitantly, “but everyone calls me Kitty.” She curtsied. 

Thomas kissed her hand in a bow. “I am the Honourable Thomas Thorne, second heir to Lord Thorne. I apologise for my inappropriate state of dress, Lady Kitty.” 

“Oh, do not worry about that, it hardly matters,” she grinned, then breathed out excitedly, “and I know who you are. We all do! I must confess, that I find your poetry to be so romantic. The little of it that I was able to see and hear around this house, that is.” 

Thomas smiled, dipping his head. “Thank you,” he replied, “it is always pleasant to meet an admirer.” 

“All right, that be enoughs of that,” Mary proclaimed as she stepped in between Thomas and Kitty. “This, here, be Humphrey.” 

“Greetings!” The head shouted, smile in place, “it is simply wonderful to meet a new face! I would shake your hand, but,” the headless body shrugged, almost dropping the head, “you can see the predicament I have found mineself in.” 

“Ah, yes,” Thomas replied, haltingly, “that seems... most unfortunate.” There were worse forms to be stuck in than his own. But, he did not believe that many could remind one of betrayal so clearly as the hole in Thomas’ gut. 


	2. In Silence And Tears

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thomas deals with being dead and the return of Byron. A tale is told and a mysterious girl appears.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeesh this is,, very late. My bad, sorry guys. I kinda... forgot that I’d written this ngl

It was night. Thomas was in one of the guest rooms, as far away from Byron and his own old room as possible. Robin was curled up beside him on the bed. It was tradition, apparently, that he stayed with every new ghost for at least the first night. 

Thomas was, in truth, thankful for the company. It kept him from falling into a pit of despair and screaming his pain and tears out into the darkness. 

Whatever else Byron had taken from him, he would not take the rest of Thomas’ dignity. 

* * *

His first day as a ghost, Thomas managed to keep himself together, though he did also manage to keep forgetting that he couldn’t move things. (Apparently, Ghosts could  _touch_ things, but whenever they tried to  move them, they simply moved  _through_ them, hence the ability to walk through walls.) 

His second night as a ghost did not go nearly so well, however. 

He’d, quite wrongly, assumed that he would be fine by himself for the night. He had forgotten, however, that his calm reaction to  _being murdered by his lover_ was due entirely to shock and having constant company. 

Once the shock had worn off, and none of the other... ghosts, were around to keep Thomas’ mind occupied, there was nothing he could do to stop the rage and anguish from seeping in. 

He would never pick up a quill again. Never feel the smoothened pages of a well-loved book again. He would never be able to shout at Lord Byron (the beard splitter) ever again. 

And, as he broke down, there was nothing Thomas could do but wail into the void. He dropped to his knees, tears refusing to fall from his eyes, as his hands scrapped and beat uselessly against the floorboards. 

Fiend seize it, he couldn’t even feel the wood beneath his fingers. 

Thomas screamed at the thought, yanking at his hair instead, desperate to feel  _something_. 

Suddenly, something warm and soft wrapped around him, and Thomas scrabbled to grab hold of it. He lent back into the softness, clutching some of it tightly in his hands, as he sobbed, eyes closed. 

Distantly, he heard soothing rumbles in an unknown language, accompanied by something that sounded almost like purring. 

* * *

Thomas woke slowly, drifting between full consciousness and the haze of sleep. His head was buried in something soft, arms clutching at something furry. He got the strange sensation of being warm, without actually being able to  _feel_ the temperature. 

He peeled his eyes open, shifting slightly to see what he was lying on. It was Robin. 

Thomas jolted away, startling the older ghost into waking as well. “What are you doing?” Thomas asked, “why were you _cuddling_ me ?” 

Robin shrugged. “You sad last night, I hear you, so I come see you.” 

Thomas blinked. Oh, yes, he remembered now. The whole being dead thing had just sunk in, causing a break down, which only ended after something- or someone, actually- had hugged him. That must have been Robin.

“Oh,” Thomas replied, “...thank you, that was.. kind of you.” 

Robin shrugged again. “Is no problem.” 

* * *

Once he got over the whole  _being dead_ thing, being a ghost was actually kind of boring. That was the only way to describe it. They were stuck, day in, day out, just...  _watching_ the world move on without them. 

Thomas tried to work on a poem or short story to pass the time, but he just couldn’t seem to find the motivation. 

As if that wasn’t bad enough, fate decided that he hadn’t suffered enough, and gave to him a cursed turn of events. 

Lord Byron, who had left the house the day after he murdered Thomas, returned after two months away. This time, he brought his new wife with him. 

* * *

“A pox upon all thine family!” Thomas shouted at the man he used to be so fond of. 

Robin approached him cautiously. “He no hear you anymore, remember?” 

Thomas sighed, glaring at Byron’s back. “Yes, I am aware, Robin. But I cannot touch him, and so I yell at him.” 

Robin grunted in understanding, nodding his head. “You want distract?” 

By now, Thomas was surprisingly good at interpreting both Robin and Mary’s garbled speech, so he knew what his friend was trying to ask. 

“Mm, yes, that would probably be for the best,” Thomas agreed, still glaring at his ex-lover. 

Robin nodded decisively, striding forward to take Thomas by the arm. “Come with me,” he said, “we find others.” 

“Why?” Thomas questioned, but willingly followed the older ghost. 

“Because, we distract each other. You tell story.” 

Thomas’ eyebrows rose in surprise. “Oh,” he murmured, but his heart lightened at the thought. “Well, I suppose I can think of  _something_,” he stated, always happy to entertain others. 

With his disposition noticeably brighter, Thomas all but skipped beside his friend, ready to find the other ghosts. He might not be in the mindset to create new art, but he always had various works floating around in his mind. Though, perhaps he was more depressed than he had previously thought, because the only story he could remember was that of the Little Plague Girl. 

* * *

“In the country, there stands a house, miles away from any other residence or building inhabited by any other living soul. This house, hidden from the roads by trees and fields, and separated from the nearest town by a great lake and far away hills, is as isolated as any civilised human could hope to make their home, short of scaling the peak of a large mountain and putting down roots there. This house, belonging as it does to a young Baron, is large and spacious, a perfectly ordinary manor, if more expensive than the average dwelling of an average land-owning gentry. It is staffed by some twenty servants, all of whom possess calm minds, not prone to hysteria or making up falsehoods to excuse themselves from work. Their master was a lenient man, after all, but was by no means forgiving of lacklustre efforts. The last servant to cut shams in his work was thrown out on his ear, barely an hour after the master had caught the poor boy reading a book rather than shelving it,” the tale began. 

“So when strange happenings began to occur in the house, noises without any seen cause or reasoning behind, the servants were understandably unsettled. But these servants were not without steel in their spines, and they were not so easily frightened as to be run off by mere sound. Finally, though, the Baron of the house heard these noises himself, brief snatches of familiar humming and lyrics akin to those heard upon a children’s playground. But there were no children in the house. Nor were there any children at the closest neighbour’s house, some thirty miles to the east. The Baron was understandably unnerved by the eerie sounds that echoed through his royal halls. 

“The first time he heard that chilling sound, the Baron had ignored it, for surely it could be nothing more than his imagination playing tricks on him, thanks to many a late night spent reading the infamous tales of H.P. Lovecraft. The second time he heard it, the Baron, though deeply unsettled, refused to acknowledge the sound, fearing that he may be committed to Bedlam. It was not until the seventh time he heard the humming, which was taunting him in the pantry as he went to check on his food, that the Baron thought to ask his servants if, perhaps, they too have been hearing the song. As it was, the Baron only thought to ask when the two cooks and three other servants in the room all stiffened in discomfort, each becoming distracted from what they were doing and glancing around in what might have been fear. 

“He, too, glanced around the room, instinctively trying to find the source of the music. ‘Did you hear that?’ he asked the nearest servant. ‘Wha- what do you mean?’ the servant stuttered back, sweat gathering upon his forehead. He had a family to feed, he could not afford to lose his job. ‘That humming, was it one of you?’ the Baron questioned, desperate for a logical answer. The servant shook his head rapidly, watery blue eyes wide in the daylight streaming in from the window, ‘no, my Lord, it was not one of us’ the servant said, voice rising in pitch from the fear of joblessness and Bedlam that would surely await him if he said one wrong word. 

“The Baron’s eyes lit with triumph. ‘So you did hear it!’ he exclaimed, elated by the proof of his sanity, ‘I knew I could not have been the only one’. He did not, in fact, know anything of the sort, but he was the Lord of the house and it would not do for him to appear uneducated and in possession of a white feather. ‘But if you are not responsible for the song, who then is to blame for my waking nightmare?’ the Baron asked. There was a tense silence as the servants exchanged wary glances. No one wanted to be the one to explain their theory, but the Baron was impatient and demanded answers from them. The servants deferred to their leader, the Head Chief of the house. She was an intelligent and formidable woman, the sort who would be scoffed at for not being delicate enough. ‘There are rumours, sir, fanciful tales about a child, a young girl taken by the plague, who still walks these halls after death. The other servants believe the songs to be caused by the little girl reaching out to the world of the living’ the Cook said. 

“The Baron scoffed, ‘nonsense,’ he told them all, his deep baritone echoing in the open kitchen, ‘such fanciful tales belong in the works of Lovecraft, not my home’,” on and on the tale went, Thomas weaving words through the air with such finesse that the other ghosts were near hypnotised by his story. Unbeknown to them, the room grew colder as Thomas weaved his story.

Then, something truly strange happened. 

Thomas had reached the climax of the tale, the point when the ghost appeared to the Baron of the house. “A chill passed down the spine of the Baron as he stared in horror at the sight which befell his disbelieving eyes. A child stood before him. But this was no ordinary child. This little girl was pale and grey in colour, her skin almost matching her clothes, her hair matted and dull. And the Baron could see  _through_ her. 

“As though to terrify the poor fool further, the little girl began to hum.” 

Thomas started to hum. 

Then, hauntingly, another,  _younger_ voice, began to join him. 

Thomas stopped suddenly, body stilling and unneeded breath faltering as the hairs on the back of his neck stood on end. Slowly- painful slowly- he turned his head to look behind him, where his companions were currently staring in shock. 

There, stood behind him, pale-skinned, sunken-eyed and bole-covered, was a little girl clearly taken by the plague. 

She stopped humming, opened her mouth and spoke a single word. “Greetings.” There was an unnatural, echoy quality to her voice, the word feeling as though it crawled through Thomas’ ears and straight down his spine. 

Had he still been alive, Thomas would surely have fainted from shock and horror. 

The Little Girl disappeared in a puff of wispy smoke. 

“Robin, who was that?” Kitty asked in the silence. 

“Me not know. Never seen girl before,” the creature told them, still staring at the space the girl had previously occupied. 

“Oh, does that mean she’s new?” Kitty smiled at the thought of a new friend. 

“She can’t be,” Thomas replied, finally turning to face his companions again. “The plague has not touched England in my lifetime.” 

“Thomas right, she not new.”

“Then... who is she?” Kitty asked the question which was on all of their minds. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Please don't hesitate to leave a comment if you liked the fic, or if you have any advice, or if there's anything you'd like to see later on in this fic :)
> 
> Regency Terms:  
brought to Point Non Plus - a situation with no options, a problem with no solution  
Dun territory - debt  
set your cap at someone - aim to marry them  
bleed freely - give money  
hanging upon thy sleeve - let self be financially supported  
throw a rub in the way - spoil the plan  
blast your top lights - curse your eyes, damn your eyes  
leg-shackled - married  
a fudge - a rumour, a lie  
calf-love - immature love of a young man  
cutting shams - lies  
white feather - to have possession of a white feather - you are a coward  
addle pate - an inconsiderate, foolish fellow


End file.
